2084
by TrashTitles
Summary: A short one-shot inspired by George Orwell's 1984


2084

You've been told that the opening sentence of any story is what compels the reader to continue, it's the difference between your book being put back on the shelf or being carried towards the till but there's not much truth to that, not anymore. There are no shelves to browse through. There are no cashier's to pay. The world isn't what it used to be. You've watched it change, watched it fall, watched it burn. But you write your story anyway. Even though the bookshops are gone and the buildings lie in rubble. You write your story in the hope that one day, when the natural world is in full bloom again, you are remembered.

The year is two thousand and eighty four. You are almost ninety-one years old and you're on your way home from work. Retirement doesn't exist now, you work until you die and you've all accepted that. Your shoulders are hunched, your eyes bore into the ground before you as you shuffle along the road towards what you call home. Your hands ache as you ball them into fists so tight you're sure there are nail marks sketched across each palm. You push them as far into your coat pockets as your arms will allow, as though it does anything against the cold. It's a Tuesday, or at least you think it is. Most people stopped counting the days somewhere in 2059 but not you. You tried to keep up as much as you could. Your brain isn't what it used to be, and you're sure there's an error in there somewhere but you like to believe today is Tuesday. So it is. You move slowly, small steps are taken in large black combat boots and if there were any mirrors left, you would see how stiff and uncomfortable you appeared to the world. Although nobody paid attention to anyone else anymore. Breeding was enforced to ensure productivity continued but love was a rare thing. People were broken on a daily basis and once their hearts stopped pushing blood through their bodies, they were carried away to the inferno.

Thirty ice cold minutes pass before you open your front door. There are no keys anymore, there are no locks, it's considered lucky to even have a door. You shuffle in and close it behind you, leaning for a moment. You have thirty centimetres of privacy. Once you cross the first thirty centimetres of your home, you're on full display. You have about forty five seconds before the buzzing begins as they search for you. You like to take the full forty-five. On your right, hidden away where nothing can see, is a yellow ribbon sitting on a stack of handwritten pages. Yours. You smile so large your teeth are exposed, it's finally finished. After removing the smile from your face and return to the expressionless mask humans are forced to wear, you continue through your home. You hang your coat on the rack and light the fire. You make porridge on the stove and sit on the broken bed in the corner of the room. And then you eat, wishing there was still sugar in the world.

You remember being young, maybe around eleven or twelve, and you're grandfather was caring for you as your dad worked away. He made you porridge every morning, with milk around the edges and brown sugar on the top. You almost smile at the memory, but you know it will set them off, so you push it away and look at the empty bowl before you. After washing the dishes and changing into your sleeping clothes, made from old curtains a neighbour no longer needed, you glance at the other bed at the far side of the room. It's empty, like it usually is. She's not home, but then again, it's rare for her to be now. She told you it was to keep you safe, and you know it's true. She would be killed if she were caught, they all would. Her name is Adelaide, she is twenty-four and your granddaughter. Her mother was taken away and burned alive in the inferno, her father probably something similar. It's a rough time for children. So often they grow up in the care of their grandparents, but only if they're lucky. If there isn't an older relative to care for them, and the home doesn't want them, then they also pay a trip to the inferno. It's a ghastly time for everyone these days.

You try to remember how it began, how it really began but it's difficult to pinpoint. There were so many developments and they all happened so quickly. The internet became a sensation when you were very young, maybe ten or younger. Then popular webpages were developed into personal pages and everyone had one. It was supposed to be a way to find lost friends or family. It was supposed to bring the human race closer together. And at the beginning it did. And then things went horribly, horribly wrong. You remember the riots and the protests and the burnings. You remember people being captured and flogged in the streets as you all cried out for public injustice but they didn't listen. Of course they didn't listen, they had no ears to hear your prayers and no hearts to feel your love. They were cold, dead and methodical.

You watched your parents, your friends and your lovers being torn apart and even though you believed in the fight, even though you fought for it every second of every day, it wasn't enough. You look back on it and wonder how you got as far as you did. Eventually, after a few years of rioting and worldwide collapse, there weren't many people left and the machines took charge. The human population was left with less than five percent and it fell more every day. You were used to pick apart the rubbish, searching for anything that could be used to build more machines. Food was more or less depleted. Animals, flowers, and wildlife hadn't been seen in years. Canned food was what lined your cupboards, but even then, there wasn't enough to go around. People starved, people died and eventually, people stopped caring. The machines handed out fifteen cans per month per person, just enough to keep you alive.

You glance at her bed and wonder what she's doing now. Adelaide. You want to say her name out loud, you want to curl up in her bed just to be reminded of what she smells like but you don't. Emotions are considered illegal and punishable by death. You don't fear death anymore, in fact you welcome it with open arms. But it's not yourself you fear for, but for her. When she was fifteen, she started sneaking out to join the resistance, she would be quiet and think you didn't know but truth be told, you watched her walk down the garden path and slip into the sewers so many times it became a nightly ritual. She thought you were going to be furious but instead you gave her thicker boots and a warmer coat and kissed her on the head. Within the thirty centimetres, obviously. She frowned and looked at you but you smiled and said the words you think everyone needs reminded of.

"Never give up".

There are weeks that pass by now and you wonder if you'll see her before you die. You know it's coming soon. One day you won't be able to pull the sheets from your skin at sun-up. One day your eyes won't open and you won't see the colourless world that you see now. You're prepared for it. Underneath the tiny house that you sleep in, is a metal door that leads to your bunker. A bunker that nobody but you and Adelaide know exists. You built it when she was three and filled it with everything a person would need to survive. You locked it away and built a house on top and they didn't notice. It was shortly after that the cameras were installed. You always had impeccable timing.

The door clicks open and closed and you smell the soap from her hair. At first you're curious about where she got soap, but that thought dissipates as soon as you see her face in the doorway. Slightly dirty around the edges and her lips bitten and chapped. Her eyes so green they remind you of fresh grass every time you see them. You want to smile. But you don't. You wonder if she knows. She pulls off her boots at the door and steps into the room in her old socks, full of filth and holes. You make a mental note to try and trade something for new socks. The corner of her mouth turns slightly, not enough for them to notice, but enough for you. You scratch your nose and she licks her lips and you want to smile but you don't. A secret language invented so long ago, it's difficult to remember, especially at your age. She said hello, and you said that you loved her. You wonder if she knows that you're dying. You climb into your small camp bed and pull the sheet around you, shivering as it doesn't keep out much cold. You wonder if that's the last time you'll do it. You wonder what heaven is like. You wonder if God is waiting. You fall asleep.

You're sure you're still sleeping when you hear it. It's soft and delicate and you wonder what it is. It sounds so familiar but you can't place it. And then you understand. Someone is crying. Immediately your thoughts fly to Adelaide, you make an effort to get up and go to her bedside but for some reason, you can't move. Your legs feel as though they've been soaked in concrete and your lids refuse to open. You try and speak but nothing. You wonder if your voice is coarse because it hasn't been used in a while but no. You struggle and you fight and you try to get to her but you can't. It's not until you feel her hand curl around yours that you stop fighting and you wait. Her sniffles surround your ears and pour inside. Human emotion is illegal. You want to tell her to stop, that she'll be caught, but you can't. Instead you just listen, and wait. You're tired, so tired. You wonder how you could be so tired since you've already slept. Your eyes are already closed yet they feel so heavy. Her hand is tight around yours and your bed shakes as she cries. You would give anything in the whole world to pull her in tight and tell her you love her, just one more time, out loud.

"It's okay Nonny… I love you" she whispers and you want to smile but you can't. You want to tell her you love her back but you can't. Your finger twitches against hers and then you die. You wonder if she knew you were going to die tonight. There are no bright lights, no booming voices or large golden gates. It's just dark. There's nothing around you but darkness. You try to walk, to run but it only leads to more black. Your heart rate is increasing as you panic that this is it, this is the afterlife. Darkness. Nothing but darkness surrounding you, swallowing you, deafening you. The vast overwhelming nothingness tastes like salt and you question all those Sundays spent praying when you were young. But then it happens, and you finally understand what it was about. What it was all about.


End file.
